Death of the Ibis
by LuminaCarina
Summary: Harry Potter has problems. His house is alive, he can't decide whether to start dating Ginny again, he can't stand to even look at his godson, and he's started hallucinating. Yes, he has more than enough problems of his own. So why did he involve himself in a fifty-year-old murder case where the victim is Bellatrix's mom?


**Been toying with this story for a while now. I wrote up several versions of it, but I didn't like any of them until this one came along. The updates will be slow and irregular, but I'm pretty sure I'll finish it. And as for the idea itself... Druella Black fascinates me. Her history, her life, her character. J.K. just calls her Bellatrix's mom and then forgets about her, but I wanted to know the real her. I sought out the fanfics with her as a character, but most authors portray her as a snobby pureblood, keeping her flat and uninteresting and in the background. If you have any suggestions or complaints about how I made her or the story, please either PM me or ask in the reviews. I'm not a mind reader.**

**I own nothing.**

The birds were chirping.

It was the middle of summer, the time when both rain and people are nowhere to be found and the air somehow manages to taste both dry and sticky. Not even the alley cats dared to walk on the scorching white lava the pavement had become. The little grass that could be seen in front of Grimmauld Place was dry and yellow and tall enough for a child to be completely hidden from view when walking through it. It created a soothing rustle whenever wind blew by it, which was almost never.

All in all, it was such a hot and lazy day that Harry was surprised to hear the wild chirping of a dozen birds. When he leaned through the window and looked around to see if he could find them, careful not to touch the heated windowsill, it took a bit for him to register that yes, a dozed birds were actually sitting on the telephone wires and merrily chirping. Their dark feathers were in stark contrast with the almost white sky in the background, giving them an ominous appearance. But it was so _hot_ that he quickly let go of his shock and went back to what he was doing before the birds drew his attention.

He was trying to find a way to restore to Black family tapestry without tearing it down and starting from scratch – which he couldn't do as he had no idea how to even begin fixing or making one. He had been tinkering with a lot of the stuff in the house, trying to make it baby-proof so that it would be safe for Teddy to visit, but so far he hadn't had much luck. A big part of it was his own lack of knowledge and the many holes in his education, but there were other factors present, too.

One of those was that it was like the house was fighting against him. Nothing stayed the way he wanted it to. It started with the little things – the century old china going from one place to another, candles getting displaced, his robes turning up in the most ridiculous places (like the chimney), but it soon escalated to the big things. If he moved an armchair from the living room to the music room it would somehow mysteriously reappear in the living room the next day. A drawer from the second floor bedroom taken to the fourth floor bedroom was back in its former place within hours.

He at first thought it was Kreacher moving the things without his orders, but even when directly asked the old elf claimed he didn't do anything. He tried looking in various books, asking his friends and even his 'enemies', but no one knew why it was happening. He ended up seeking help from the portraits, but the old bastards refused to answer him. They even stopped their fellow portrait of a little grey-eyed boy from telling him something from sheer spite. At least, that was what Harry guessed happened. The boy had merely opened his mouth, but a woman in a dirty blonde dress shot him a look and he closed it. The only real clue he had was from Arcturus Black, who said that he would never be the true owner of the Black family ancestral home.

So he gave up on rearranging. He let the furniture remain in its places for as long as it wanted. The table could stay in the dining room or it could go to the bathroom for all he cared. It was all the same to him. He ordered Kreacher to clean and take care of it, and to alert him immediately if he saw it moving. It wouldn't do for his non-existent guests to be spooked by walking furniture, after all.

But, back to the issue at hand. He was spending his time playing with the tapestry because for some reason it didn't show Teddy's face on it. Harry theorized that if was because of Andromeda's disownment, but he couldn't be sure. It didn't show his mother's, Lily Evans', face, and yet it showed Harry's own. He had no idea why it was like that, and he was hoping to find out. It would really be horrible if he wasn't able to show Teddy his place among the Blacks. They were a nasty family, that's for sure, but still family.

One of the things wrong with the tapestry was all the missing faces. The images of Andromeda and Sirius were the ones he missed the most, but there were also Alphard, Marius, Isla and Cedrella. All that was left of them were their names. Harry wanted to put them back on the tapestry, but he first had to figure out how the blasted thing worked in the first place. Did it record family members by itself, or did it need help from an outer source? And how did it determine who was 'family'? Did it have to do with blood or magic? Or what? Harry had no idea.

But like with all the other stuff going on in the house, it was wearing him down. He had a feeling that if the tapestry resisted for long enough he would give up and leave it alone. He knew himself, and he knew that once he let it go he wouldn't be coming back to it. Not even for Teddy.

Another spell muttered under his breath did the same thing all other spells did before it – absolutely nothing. The stupid curtain stayed the same, mocking him with its black holes.

''Bloody Hell!''

His voice echoed eerily through the empty hallways, bouncing all the way to the kitchen. In his haste to do _something_ he had accidentally slammed his wand arm into the wall, and it bloody hurt. His arm throbbed like an old bruise, and Harry was once again reminded why refusing to take healing lessons from Hermione was a bad idea. It sure comes in handy knowing how to heal a minor injury in times like this.

But oh well. There was nothing he could do about it now. He rubbed his arm to lessen the pain and sat back into the delicate rosewood chair standing innocently in the corner. But it was far from innocent – the wretched thing often changed places with one of the chairs from the dining room and, on one notable occasion, with the rug in front of his bed. He had tripped over it while getting out of bed while half asleep and almost broke a leg.

The dry air from the street swirled through the room so slowly it did nothing for the room's stuffiness. Harry closed his eyes and tried to relax. The key word being _tried_. The heat wouldn't let him relax no matter what. He licked his chapped lips and sighed. Even if a breeze did miraculously appear out on nowhere, it would do nothing for the house. Like with everything else, the fireplaces seemed to have a mind of their own, and had taken to lighting up in the worst moments possible.

The birds were still chirping, but instead of being amazed and calmed, Harry was getting annoyed. He already had a headache, no need to turn it into a migraine.

For lack of anything better to do, Harry went back to the tapestry. He didn't try to meddle with it this time, opting to just study it. How many times did he look it over, searching for the invisible problem and overlooking its visible trademarks? He had spent hours looking at Sirius, tracing his name – only a black burn mark was left of his face – and apologizing. But he had never given much thought to the other Blacks. They were just strangers to him, but now that he thought about it…

Dorea Potter was his grandmother. A witch who, at least according to the date on the tapestry, died in 1977. She had grey eyes and pale skin, and was wearing a strange scaled hat. He lightly touched the name Cedrella Weasley, who had her face burnt off. She had been the mother of Mr. Weasley. His lip curled at the sight of Bellatrix Lestrange and her disgusting brother-in-law Lucius Malfoy. There were no words to describe how much he hated them.

And then there was Narcissa Malfoy. Harry's eyes wandered over her image and something uncomfortably warm turned in his stomach. The blonde was beautiful even on the tapestry. But it was odd really, how different she looked compared to her sisters. Where Bellatrix and Andromeda were heavy-lidded brunettes with harsh and sharp features, Mrs. Malfoy had a round face and looked almost childlike. Did the sisters take after different parents, Harry wondered. He dragged his finger up and came to the face of Cygnus Black. The man resembled his two older daughters very much, despite the fact that his skin was wrinkled and saggy from old age. There was no picture for the name tied to Cygnus' – Druella Rosier, like so many others, didn't show up on the tree. It was by accident that his eyes slid over the dates beneath her name. 1938 – 1955.

Harry stared at it for a moment. He quickly calculated in his head and came to the revelation that Druella had died at seventeen years of age. When did she have her daughters? She was barely legal when she died. And yet, she was married and a mother.

But what did he care? Druella Rosier was just some odd woman who was stupid enough to marry a Black. He had better things to worry about.

Harry stood up and shook the stiffness out of his legs. Ginny had invited him to join her for dinner and tea at Luna's that evening once again, and he wasn't about to face her wrath if he was late. Well, later than he already was. The redhead was a force of nature – a rather destructive and unmerciful one.

Due to the malfunctioning fireplaces, he couldn't use the floo, and that left him with the options of either walking or taking the Knight bus. He would never even consider the bus and he was too lazy to search for muggle money, so he had to walk. He grabbed a hat on his way out and yelled out a goodbye to Kreacher. It was a silly thing, that hat. It was a fedora made from bright yellow straw, and it had a green bow and some stuffed sparrows on it. It was so incredibly obnoxious and so obviously inspired by Madam Longbottom's vulture hat that it was impossible not to be amused by it. It had been a congratulations-for-surviving-Voldie gift from Dean and was meant as a joke, but, much to Hermione's despair, Harry loved it and took any chance offered to wear it – even in the muggle world.

A mild cooling charm later saw him strolling through London without a care in the world. People, mainly tourists, looked at him in shock and the children laughed at his hat, but Harry ignored them. Straw hats like his were the height of fashion in the wizarding world. So what if it was because of him that they became popular? They deserved to be worn with pride.

It took him over an hour to get to Luna's house and, once he got there, it was Fleur who saw him first. Her pregnant belly was still almost invisible, but there was no mistaking what her glowing face meant. She quickly informed everyone that he was finally there, and so Harry found himself mauled by a dozen women high on heat and ice tea. The guys were in the back yard, having a competition to see who could pick up a heavier rock. There was plenty of butterbeer going around and everything pointed towards the alcohol having been brought out a while ago. Oliver's face was certainly red enough.

The large white and brown house known as Luna's house – even though Neville also lived there – was surrounded by grassy fields forever covered in dew. Neville was planning to plant huge gardens there, with many plants from all over Europe and Asia, but the fields were still bare and rocky. Everybody was pitching in to help turn them into fertile soil; it wasn't unusual for the 'dinner and tea' gatherings to turn out to be just an excuse for the women to force them to de-rock the land while they gossiped. Nobody ever complained, though. It was nice to think of manual labour as the biggest problem they had to face.

''Hey, Harry! Where've you been, mate? The party started two hours ago.''

Ron's voice was slightly slurred and Harry guessed that Hermione hadn't heard it yet. None of the guys heard it either, because they had all rushed to him the moment he came, and Harry happily submitted himself to the same man-handling he had received from the girls only a minute ago. A bottle of beer was shoved into his hands by a tipsy George, and his shirt was basically torn away by an equally buzzed Seamus.

''Nice hat, Harry.'' Came from Bill, who was holding his precious hat in dirt covered hands. It was clearly him who had won the rock lifting competition.

''Tell that to Dean,'' he retorted with a smirk, ''he was the one to buy it.''

Bill grinned wolfishly, and turned to Dean. The black skinned wizard was rolling on the ground with Neville and Charlie, wrestling. Just as Harry's eyes found them, he and Neville ganged up on Charlie and shoved the dragon tamer into the dusty dirt next to one of the benches.

''Merlin's bollocks, you bastards! Cho bought these pants! She'll have my head for this, you little dipshits!''

Charlie's usually deep voice was shrill and girly-sounding from anger, and it only served to make Harry's former dorm-mates laugh harder.

''Then you should've worn something else! You knew that we still owed you for the last time!'' was Dean's breathless reply, and to accentuate his statement, he motioned for Oliver to pour a pitcher of water on Charlie's head, turning the dust into clay-like mud. Everyone started cackling when the redhead's curses only got louder and more imaginative.

Bill took this as his cue to avenge his brother.

''Yo, Dean!'' he called. ''I hear it was you who bought this lovely hat! Didn't know you were into that, mate!''

Harry couldn't breathe he was laughing so much, and the only one not to find this funny was Percy. Lee and George were making kissy faces at the embarrassed bloke, and Ron had keeled over gasping for air the moment he realized which hat they were talking about. Dean's face flushed and he threw a fistful of mud at Bill's scarred face, missing by a good three feet.

''Screw you, you goblin fucker! If you want, I can tell you where to get one for yourself!'' was the furious reply.

''No worries, but thanks for the offer, Dianne! And my wife isn't a goblin, she's a veela. Thought you would know the difference, what with the way you stare at her arse every time she walks by.''

Seamus slapped his friend's shoulder at that, and Dean was taken away to the smaller round table to root for Oliver as the quidditch player got in an arm-wrestling contest with Ron.

''Does he really stare at her?'' Harry asked Bill while they watched Oliver beat Ron over and over again without even breaking a sweat. Harry decided that his best friend should really learn when to quit.

''Nah,'' was the casual answer, ''he's too busy staring at the Patil girl's arse. What was her name again? Parvati?''

They watched Percy eat a chip and turn into a canary for the third time since Harry came.

''That's six,'' Bill snickered.

So it was actually six times in one day. Why Percy kept accepting food from Fre-, from George and Lee, Harry had no idea. He grabbed another beer and drank it in one go. He considered joining the arm-wrestling contest, but his arm still throbbed and there were sure to be more competitions later.

''Dinner's ready!''

The words worked like a charm. In the span of a single second, everyone looked at the slightly chubby form of Hannah Abbott, looked at each other, and flashed away in the direction of food. Harry raced shoulder to shoulder with Neville, fighting for the first place and the right for the first slice of treacle tart. Unfortunately, the battle ended when Lee tripped them with a weak jinx and they smashed into the chair Penelope was sitting in. The blue-eyed witch was sent sprawling to the ground, and it was only Hermione's quick thinking that saved her from a nasty bruise. She didn't bother cushioning their fall, though, and Harry found himself in a messy heap with Neville's legs twisted around his waist awkwardly and a twig poking him in his aching arm.

''Gear-off,'' he groaned, because Neville was heavy and the position they were in had already earned them some hoots and cat-calls.

The moment Neville was off, Harry threw himself at the food covered table. It was obvious whose turn it had been to make the food, because it was all doughy and stuffed with cheese. Another clue pointing towards Susan being the cook was the way it was all a bit burnt in some places. He sat in an odd looking pink chair and eagerly accepted a loaded plate from Katie. He had no idea what some of the more ambiguous looking dishes were supposed to be, but one thing everyone knew about Susan's food was that it was sure to be delicious. And if she overdid it with butter and cream, no one was complaining.

Before Harry could even taste his peach and cherry pie, he was dragged in a conversation about Teddy with Ginny and Hermione.

''He's still with Andromeda, isn't he?'' Hermione was looking at him with those cinnamon eyes of hers in a way that made it impossible to refuse her anything.

Harry made a strange waving motion with his hands and put his untouched plate down sadly. ''Yeah, been trying to make the house brat-friendly, but I haven't had much luck.''

Ginny snorted at that. ''You would be the only one to inherit a haunted house, for real.''

''Hush Ginny, it isn't haunted.'' Hermione sounded exasperated, as if she had said the same thing a million times with no results, which she probably had.

The ginger haired witch didn't even bother swallowing her food before responding. ''Yes, it just moves and thinks on its own.''

Harry couldn't help but sigh at that. It was so true it wasn't even funny. He wiped the little bit of cream Ginny had sprayed him with off his cheek, and added his two knuts to the conversation. ''She has a point there, Mya. It does like to rearrange itself. And even you have no idea what it's all about, so I'm willing to go with the haunted theory.''

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him, ''But that's not how it works! There aren't any ghosts in Grimmauld Place, so it can't be haunted!''

''Says who? Maybe we just haven't seen any.''

Ginny liked antagonising Hermione. It wasn't mean or cruel or meant to hurt, it was just something she loved doing, like Harry loved quidditch and Ron loved chess. It was a fact of life that Ginny had made it her life mission to annoy her bushy haired future-sister-in-law. It didn't mean they weren't friends, they were. They were the best of friends, in fact. Ginny's irritating comments were simply a part of their complex and often times confusing relationship.

That being said, all of that didn't mean Hermione didn't let it get to her.

One of those times Hermione finally lost it was right then and there. How her eye was twitching and the way her hair puffed up and looked like it was eating her head made her seem mildly psychotic. Harry intervened before Hermione did something she wouldn't regret. Something like throwing a blueberry muffin at Ginny's smirking face. Last time that happened it escalated into a food fight.

''There aren't any ghosts at Grimmauld Place. And as for Teddy, he's staying with Andromeda, and she won't let him come over while the house is still being cleaned out.''

The unspoken 'Until it dies' hung in the air, but mercifully, no one pointed out the elephant in the room. Or, the garden.

''Hey, mate!'' Ron's shout came from the far end of the table where the entirety of Harry's dorm mates were communing, ''You hear 'bout the Falcons!? They smashed the Arrows! 610 to a measly 70!'' This was accompanied by cheering and loud whistles, which were then sharply cut off when Angelina smacked her husband and his friend.

Harry leaned forward, about to point out that the Arrows only lost because their chasers, seeker and one of the beaters were all in St. Mungo's being treated for spell damage due to duelling while completely pissed, but Hermione spoke up before he could.

''Ron!'' she gasped, ''Oh, fiddle-sticks! Are you drunk!?''

''What? What are you on about, woman? I ain't drunk, you're off your trolley!''

Harry laughed at Ron's predicament, and quickly escaped another one of Ginny's propositions by going to sit with the rest of his cackling year-mates.

Neville was flushed and sweaty, sitting with his head bowed a bit to avoid the supple orange branches of his latest pet project. Harry was still surprised at Neville's height – he had always figured Ron would be the tall one of their group. But Neville had proved them all wrong. At over six feet tall and with broad shoulders he was a giant of a man, and made for a rather funny sight with his dopey wife at his side. Luna had stayed the same as she had been at Hogwarts, short and blonde with a permanently baffled expression on her face.

Next to Neville were Seamus and Dean. While Dean was moderately sober, Seamus was absolutely plastered. He was swaying from side to side with a stupid grin stretching his lips, looking ready to pass out, and it wasn't even eight o'clock. In comparison, Ron was stone cold sober.

Harry sat next to them, offering a bright grin and accepting a glass of Merlin-knows-what that reeked of alcohol and chocolate. He cautiously peered into it and saw a dead chocolate frog floating in what appeared to be a mix of firewhiskey and ale. There might have been a splash of mead in it, too. If that was what Seamus was drinking, it wasn't all that odd he was so sloshed. Harry took a sip and found that it wasn't that bad.

He was soon dragged into a conversation with Seamus and Dean, while Neville attended to his wife who was trying to see if shaking a box full of hag stones would summon a real hag. Seamus wasn't that much of a contribution to the conversation, but Dean was funny enough for the both of them.

''And so, we're standing in the middle of St. Mungo's, asking about the corn dolly, while the woman is looking at us like we're the crazy ones, when it was her that reported the blasted thing in the first place, and all the patients are muttering about how incompetent aurors are, when suddenly, this ridiculous puppet walks in, a straw puppet, and everyone starts screaming their blooming heads off, and Ernie, that dimwit, starts shooting out stunners, hitting everything but the doll, and all the candles are exploding, and I'm like, damn it all to Hell, I am so not going to be the one telling Kings about this, Ernie can take care of it. And so I yell out to everyone to get out, to go to the other floors or into the streets, and the fools start a stampede. The run out into muggle London, still screaming, most of them ill or bleeding or with blue fur covering their skin, and there was no way that the muggles wouldn't see them, so we had to contain them, along with all the wizarding idiots, to wait for the obliviators to come, and I had to do it by myself because Ernie the idiot managed to stun himself.''

Harry gasped for breath through his guffaws. ''And then? What happened?''

''I called Kings, cause I really had no idea what to do next, and you know that thing he does, the one that sounds like a sigh but is really a muffled curse?''

Harry eagerly nodded, ''Yeah.''

''Yeah, he does that, and says the obliviator squad is on the way, and to just try to take care of the healers cause we'll need them for all the patients and the muggles and Ernie, and just when I finally get them under control, the damn dolly walks out, looking like a living person but made out of straw, and all the progress I made is gone. Just like that. Course, I diffindoed the grass out of it, but it wasn't enough for Kings. He's had me on archive duty for two weeks now, and I wanted to kill something after only an hour, but it's better than taking care of the owls, which is what Ernie's doing, and I get off in a week, so I guess it's not that bad.''

He finished with a self-satisfied lazy smirk, looking very pleased with himself and ignoring completely the thump Seamus made when he fell out of his chair laughing.

Harry tried to imagine Ernie taking care of the ministry owls, but failed. Everyone knew that the former Hufflepuff was deathly afraid of owls ever since the messenger birds were released during the Battle of Hogwarts and started attacking the Death-eaters, pecking them and, on one notable occasion, gauging their eyes out. Harry thought it to be rather cruel of Kingsley to force him to take care of them, but then again it was the head of the auror office Zabini who assigned the punishments. The Slytherin had been known for his scathing personality and sadistic nature during his time at Hogwarts. Obviously, he hadn't changed much.

''You talking about the doll incident?''

Ron was back, victoriously holding a glass of mead in one hand and a plate full of black pudding in the other. Like everything else, the sausages were topped with clotted cream and salted dragon milk cheese.

''Yeah, mate,'' Seamus snickered, ''You should've seen Zabini's face when he heard what happened. I think he made poor Sally cry with some of the names he called Ernie. I was there to comfort her, though, so I guess I should be grateful. To Zabini and his insults!''

He rose his glass in the air, and Harry and Dean both joined him. Ron did as well, but a bit late as he had to put his food down first. Harry downed the now melted frog cocktail in one swing, and had to blink and shake his head a bit to get rid of the dizziness.

''You going to the World Cup, Harry?''

Suddenly, the entire table was interested. Everyone was abandoning their former conversation topics and talking about the Cup. The World Cup was supposed to have been held in 1998, but had been cancelled because Voldemort and his cronies were running the Ministry. But it was being reorganised now because the Ministry kept receiving death threats from die-hard fans who wouldn't accept no for an answer. Various matches had already been held, and the semi-finals were being held within a week's time. The finals were scheduled for August 25th, and were to be held somewhere near Kyoto.

Harry, like the rest of the British wizards, was rooting for England to win. However, despite his desperate hope to see the Cup in the hands of the English national team, he knew their chances were slim. Malawi was a force to be reckoned with, and neither Japan nor Senegal were pushovers.

''We kin dae it!''

Oliver's enthusiastic shout was barely heard over the noise everybody was making, but it still managed to lift Harry's spirit. Cho laughed wildly at Charlie's improvised song cheering for England, and it soon escalated into the Weasley men serenading their wives and girlfriends with fan songs. But the quidditch craze quickly passed and was replaced with endeared shouts.

''Andromeda!''

''Andy!''

''Meda!''

''Dromeda!''

Indeed, Andromeda was walking through the gates of the garden, dressed in her usual garb consisting of a dark, lace-trimmed dress with a lime green sash. She was holding a sleeping Teddy and his stuffed wolf and levitating a plate of chocolate éclairs.

Ginny rushed to her the way a puppy rushes to its owner, and she wrenched the blue-haired boy away from her, waking the five-month-old brat up. He opened his little eyes, which were currently green, took one look at his auntie Ginny, and promptly burst into tears.

''Oh, no, don't cry! I can't carry you if you cry. Please, Teddy-bear, stop crying!''

Ginny's attempts at calming his godson were utterly failing, and all her pleading did absolutely nothing. Andromeda didn't seem very inclined to help the red-head, in fact, Meda had seated herself between Hannah, Neville and Hermione, and was happily chatting away. Fleur came to her rescue though, and took the boy away from her with a reprimanding hiss.

''Zat is not 'ow you take care of a baby! Shhh, mon petit papillon, do not cry. Look what I 'ave for you!''

She turned her back to Ginny and quickly took Teddy to where she and Bill sat. She then pulled out her wand and summoned bright pink lights and golden stars, making them twirl and dance around for Teddy. The baby's giggling was music to Harry's ears, and he went to his godson's side. Fleur let him steal Teddy with a quiet huff, and Bill charmed him a blanket into existence. Harry sat on the fuzzy horror and held Teddy the way Meda had shown him what seemed like a long time ago.

The boy laughed and drooled, stuffing his chubby fists and stubby toes in his mouth and trying to catch the faery lights. Harry was grateful that his hair was blue, because he didn't think he would be able to take it if it was brown. That his laughter sounded like his mother's hurt bad enough and it made Harry feel terribly selfish that the knot in his throat eased at the lack of any similarities to Remus.

'Is this what Sirius felt like?' he wondered for the millionth time. 'Because if it is, then I forgive him for never being there for me.'

''Baababa – ba – ba! Baa – baa!''

Teddy's mouth was wide open and spraying drool everywhere, and his eyes were a pale, pale green. They were the kind of green Harry remembered seeing while hunting the horcruxes, in a shallow stream overflowing with cold, putrid water. Strangely, the comparison didn't bother him much.

''Do you want to go to see your auntie Mya? Huh? Want to go pull her hair?''

He didn't wait for the answering babble, choosing to just get up and take him to Hermione. He ignored Fleur's sharp intake of breath, and basically ran to Hermione.

''Harry, what in the world – ?''

''Take him. Now.''

Her mouth closed and softened, her brows relaxing. Harry uncomfortably noticed the looks Hannah and Neville were giving him, and he averted his eyes to escape them. It didn't make him feel any better, because it forced him to meet Andromeda's angry stare. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and choked down the childish urge to scream and apologise. He did nothing wrong. He did nothing wrong and he did nothing right, but that was food for thought sure to give him a stomach-ache.

He left the party without saying goodbye to anybody, but he somehow managed to catch Susan's eyes. He might have imagined it, but it sounded almost like she was singing. His lovely fedora was still resting on Bill's head.

He didn't go back home right away. He walked around muggle London, passing through its pigeon infested streets. It was no longer as hot as it was – the night had done its job and cooled the air down until it was pleasantly warm. Clearly, he wasn't the only one to think so. Tourists were everywhere, walking up and down the streets, entering and exiting shops and swarming the Trafalgar Square.

Harry found them quite annoying. They just did everything so fast! They wanted to see all, hear all, touch all and do everything. They buzzed from one end of the city to the other, taking pictures and rushing through the parks so fast they didn't even notice the newly planted patch of roses in Hyde park, or the baby birds in Regent's park. They toured towers and buildings without a single glance at the people who worked there, and they never had time for anything. And they were often rude and careless.

That was the kind of behaviour Harry associated with Death-eaters inspecting what they had before moving on to bigger and better things to conquer. He'd had enough of that during the War, and now he wanted to slow down and relax. The tourists, however, were getting in the way of his relaxation.

Oddly, even though he didn't command them to do so, his feet carried him to Grimmauld Place. He sought out a quiet place, and he found it in the shape of a bench near his house. The high grass rustled behind him, and he closed his eyes to the yellow lamp-lights.

He didn't mean to run from Teddy, he didn't! But it was just so hard to look at him and hold him and not get lost in sorrow, or worse, fury. He took in a deep breath, picturing it going through his body and cleansing out the pain, the anger and the sadness. The street lights all blurred together in his eyes and shone like a hundred suns.

He could see them, all of them, right there in the dying grass. Harts were chased by wolves which were chased by dogs which were chased by harts, and a forest of lilies bloomed everywhere around them like some twisted cage, in eye-searing shades of neon pink and blood red, and the flowers themselves morphed into a thousand pixies which flew in the shape of an ever-moving spiral. More and more shapes and ghosts joined the hunt, lions and snakes and a golden-haired woman, all of them dancing with reckless abandon.

Harry's head was bursting from pain, and once the vision was over it took him a few seconds to realise his fingernails had left eight little crescent moons on his cheekbones. He rose to his feet unsteadily, feeling as though his legs were made of jelly, and stumbled to his house. Its appearance seemed to take hours, and he found the process of it showing itself somewhere between morbid and completely natural. He welcomed the dark corridor and the feathery shadows he saw upon entering, and he welcomed the sweet smell of rot that Kreacher couldn't get rid of.

''Filthy blood-traitor,'' he heard mumbled behind the curtain of Walburga Black's portrait, but the curtains didn't open nor did the witch say anything else. Harry considered it an improvement, for before she would scream and shriek 'til she was blue in the face and even her fellow portraits were yelling for her to shut up.

He carefully went upstairs to his bedroom, treading lightly to not wake up anything. His bedroom was messy, but not dirty, and Harry sighed in contentment at the feeling of his pillow and sheets. He closed his eyes and let the tension bleed out of his body, trying to fall asleep.

It didn't work. Sleep wouldn't come to him, and all he could do was to twist and turn as he waited for the sunrise. But he quickly got bored of awaiting it in the utter darkness of his room, and so he got up and decided to go to the Music room. He didn't want to go to the Drawing room, because the tapestry was there, and besides. The Music room had three windows as opposed to the two of the Drawing room.

Two flights of stairs later, he was in the Music room. The piano was still there, just as old and pretentious as ever. Really, who kept a gilded grand piano in a room where no one would see it? But then again, maybe the Blacks believed that no one but them was worthy of even seeing it, let alone playing it. Harry himself didn't really know how to play the piano – that was something only Hermione could. He could play a simple tune, which was still much better than what Ron could. The red-head knew the first seven notes of Für Elise, and was happy with that. Harry knew the first eighteen.

But he hadn't come there to play the piano, he had come because of the windows. Harry seated himself in the fluffy white armchair and checked the clock. 04:27. He had over an hour to wait, and was already feeling the boredom.

Since playing with the hem of his wrinkled shirt did nothing to pass the time, he reached for the piano sheets. Sadly for him, most of them were written in French, German and Italian. There was even one in Swedish. With a triumphant grunt he finally found something he could read. 'For my sweet Ella', read the spidery scrawl in the upper left corner of the sheet.

Harry entertained himself by trying to decipher what it would sound like, for the notes were incredibly complicated and muddled. He was so engrossed contemplating the yet unheard music that he almost didn't notice the pale purple light filtering through the windows. The sun was coming up. He spared it a glance, but he was far too curious about the music sheets to care about the rising sun. Maybe he should take it to Hermione? She would know how to play it. But then again…

There was a lot of junk lying around the upper floors of the house. Well, not necessarily junk, but rather trinkets belonging to the Blacks whose uses he didn't know. And maybe… maybe, just maybe… one of those trinkets was the cause of his house coming to life.

Exhilarated by this new insight, Harry flew to his feet and rushed out of the room. Pity he left so fast, because had he stayed for just another second he would have seen a fairly ugly vase disappear and a silver chalice appear in its place.

But he didn't see it, for he was running downstairs and into the kitchen, where a pair of poached eggs was waiting for him. They were served on a fine china plate, with a silver spoon and a silver goblet filled with lukewarm pumpkin juice. Harry had tried to make Kreacher stop acting like he was the king of France, and serve him food on a normal plate, but the old elf staunchly refused. Harry let him keep his eccentricities, for Kreacher was very old and more than a little crazy. Speaking of Kreacher…

''Kreacher,'' he called.

A loud pop was heard, and his ancient servant was suddenly in front of him.

''Yes, master Black, sir. What can Kreacher do for master?''

He was dressed in his new pillowcase, but it was a bit grey from dust and dirt, and it didn't look very well taken care of. However, like with many other things about Kreacher, Harry chose to overlook it.

''I found some music sheets by the piano. They were dedicated to some Ella. Do you know who she might have been?''

''Oh, yes, master,'' the elf nodded his head frantically, ''They be missy Ella's. She be missy Bella and missy Cissa's lady mother.''

Harry blinked. So the music was meant for Bellatrix's mother. He abruptly remembered her from the tapestry. She was the one who died at seventeen. He wasn't aware of saying that out loud, but he must have, as Kreacher seemed very sad all of a sudden. He tugged on his ears and whined.

''Yes, mistress Ella died. It was very sad. The bad wizard was never catched, and master Ciggy was angry all the time. Mistress would go and help with the missies, but master Ciggy wouldn't let her once missy Cissa could walk on her own. He wouldn't let Kreacher help at all.''

''How did she die?''

There was a morbid kind of curiosity bubbling up in Harry's heart. That old twitch of his, that urge to solve mysteries and catch the bad guy was acting up again. Normally, Harry would ignore it and hope it would go away, but he didn't want to do that this time. He was worried about the house, worn out by the incessant propositions from his fans and let's not even get started on the whole slew of feelings Teddy brought out. And then there was his most recent hallucination. He needed a break, something to sooth his fraying nerves, and tinkering with a fifty-year-old murder case would do him wonders.

''Missus Maggie found her. She be sitting on a futon, asleeping. Missus tried to wake her up, but mistress was dead.''

Kreacher's entire head was distorted in a comic expression of gloom, like that of a man who had been warned of the coming tragedy, but who disregarded the warning only to lose everything he had to the danger he had so foolishly ignored. Harry offered him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, but was too intrigued to act any more supportive.

''Here? She died here?''

He had been sleeping in a murder house all this time? Merlin, how disturbing. Also, kind of amazing. In a sick, sick, sick way.

''No, no, no!'' Kreacher waved his skinny arms in the air, ''She be dead in the Ossuary, the house of the Bones'.''

Susan's house? What was she doing there? But of course, why wouldn't Druella be there? She was a pureblood, the Bones' were purebloods, so it wasn't a big stretch to say that they had been friends.

''And who was missus Maggie?'' he inquired.

''She be lady Shacky,'' was the firm response, ''Mistress Ella's friend.''

So, Druella Black died at seventeen, in the Bones family manor, and was found by her friend Maggie. Harry guessed that Kreacher had actually meant Shacklebolt when he said Shacky, but he could be wrong. The killer, according to his elf, had never been caught, and Druella's husband refused any help in raising his daughters. This would be fun.

**Around 7100 words.**

**Please, reviews would be welcomed.**

**Thank you for reading.**


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